


Dark Addiction

by TheApatheticEmpath



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark, Depression, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10660218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheApatheticEmpath/pseuds/TheApatheticEmpath
Summary: What the Doctor does in his free time is hardly what we'd have expected.





	Dark Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING. I'm not kidding, very graphic. Please don't read if depictions of self-harm trigger you.

The Doctor sighed, once again locked in his room, doing something so utterly human he almost laughed.

Almost, but not quite. The ability to genuinely laugh had long since been taken from him.

The Doctor sat, cross-legged on his floor, at the foot of his bed in his room in the TARDIS. His left sleeve was pulled up, his left arm rested in his lap, the soft, delicate skin of his wrist to his elbow crisscrossed with hundreds of overlapping, unorganized scars. Their coloring ranged from silver and hardly noticeable to barely scabbed and angry red, obviously recent. They had been made in no particular order, overlapping and only vaguely going in the same direction.

He looked at his small, silver blade, sitting in the palm of his right hand, and bounced it a few times, the only thing to ever offer him true comfort. Thankfully, none of his companions had ever found out- it was his dirty little secret, and he planned to keep it that way. The Doctor, the wonderful Doctor, he thought bitterly. If only. All of those people he'd let die, the beings he intentionally killed, ate away at him, at his soul, and always had. The deep loneliness inside his hearts dragged him down, making it impossible to be genuinely happy.

He barely even considered trying to resist the urge, because by now it was a dark, strange, bloody addiction that he couldn't bear to let go of. For some reason unbeknownst to him, any damage he intentionally inflicted upon himself, which extended beyond cutting- he would throw his head back against walls, slam his body into them, pour boiling water over his hands "accidentally" as he was making tea, hit himself until he bruised- that left a scar of some sort, didn't go away when he regenerated. It stayed with him, a brutal reminder of his weakness. His sonic screwdriver couldn't heal them either.

The emotional pain was becoming too much for him to handle, so he shook himself out of his reverie and brought the small silver blade he'd gotten out of a razor a few weeks ago, when his old blade had gotten dull, down to his wrist. The Doctor found a spot that seemed slightly less thick with scars than the rest of his forearm, and applied pressure to the glinting metal.

He dragged the blade through his arm, going deep into his skin, slowly savoring the crashing waves of relief that accompanied the pain he could barely feel. Blood welled in the new cut, and The Doctor repeated the process a few more times before giving a sigh of resignation and standing up to go the bathroom that adjoined his room, and began to mop up the blood from his wrists. This was the deepest he'd cut in a while- seeing Rose like that…

He swallowed. They'd gone to visit a planet by the name of Wegnasia in the Frawsoi galaxy, rumored to have a curse on it, which turned out to be a malevolent race of giant rats. The Doctor had eventually defeated them and forced them back to their home planet, but not before they'd subjected the captured Rose to various forms of torture.

She'd been broken, bloodied, bruised, and just had this look in her eyes- a look of pure horror and fear- and it was all his fault. Yes, he'd healed her with the sonic screwdriver, and comforted her, but… He had caused her that pain. She has said she forgave him, and told him it wasn't his fault. She was lying. He had caused so many people pain, he didn't deserve to live.

Without thinking he once again grabbed his small, silver friend and dug it into his wrist, not looking, not thinking, not feeling. He knew he'd hit a vein but he continued anyway. The Doctor's arm jerked and the blade dug in deeper, before he removed it from his arm and let it drop to the floor, covered in crimson tears.

He looked down at his mutilated wrist, a large, jagged cut, profusely bleeding, and all he felt was a lightheaded sort of euphoria. He grinned madly before falling to the floor with a loud crash as he knocked over various items, and let the darkness surround him in its comforting grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was written in 2012, posted on FF.net in 2013, and pretty badly written while I was in a dark place. Like, this has no redeeming qualities, it's just a sad and vaguely crackish mess, but I want all my published fics on one site. 
> 
> If you're feeling suicidal, call 1-800-273-8255 (US), or your country's equivalent. You're not alone, and no one is beyond help <3


End file.
